In The Beginning
by sabrielfaerie
Summary: POV from Harry, the center of the universe; Ron, spot-light technician and Seamus, the anti-hero
1. I Am A Soldier

A/N* I CLAIM NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU! Well, maybe the plot. But you can have everything else, I promise...  
  
Some men are born great, some men achieve greatness and some men have greatness thrust upon them. But that isn't really true, is it? No. It is true that there are three types of men, or for those who are sensitive about such things, three types of people. The first type is someone who, whether by choice or by force stands squarely in the middle. They are always the center, always the focus of the world. Prime example, Harry Potter. He is the center of the world, the core of the community, but inside? Who is he inside? Who is anyone on the inside?  
  
  
  
In the beginning I was a soldier. I did not enlist, I was drafted. Forced into a battle I did not start, but was expected to end. Like all soldiers I found war exciting at first. Before the first death. And the second. The third and forth, and on and on, so many lives lost without reason, so many parentless children, childless parents. I am Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. I will fight on, for a reason I do not know.  
  
A million times I lifted my wand to end it all and a million times I put my arm down again. Not for myself, I am a murderer; I do not deserve to live, but for the people who depend on my very existence to keep them alive. When you stand in the middle of the universe, when all eyes are looking to you, you cannot melt away quietly into yourself. You must remain there, pulsing, glowing, beating. You must stay alive, you must fight because that is what people have come to expect.  
  
When you stand at the center you are loathed or you are envied. I envy those who loathe me, for they have freedom, I loathe those who envy me, for they are the reason I must continue to live.  
  
Where I am in the center I live with the knowledge that my mother died for me. And why? So I could live this cursed life, this life where everyone I love is lost and everyone I hate rises to the top. Go figure.  
  
I look out the window and view the beauty of the rugged coastline. Such beauty is wasted on me I can not appreciate it anymore than a blind person can appreciate colour.  
  
Beauty only exists to be hated, it creates bitterness and envy, it causes power struggles and killing. Beauty is a wretched beast, it rears it's head at the most inopportune moments.  
  
Self-loathing has curled its ugliness around my heart and I find myself turning away, my eyes do not deserve the sunset, they do not deserve to see another sun rise.  
  
I am Harry Potter. I am the Boy Who Lived. But I am dead inside. 


	2. I Polish Halo's, And Yourself?

A/N* I CLAIM NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU! Well, maybe the plot. But you can have everything else, I promise...  
  
Some men are born great, some men achieve greatness and some men have greatness thrust upon them. But that isn't really true, is it? No. It is true that there are three types of men, or for those who are sensitive about such things, three types of people. The second type is those who are thrust to the side, half of them deep in shadow, the other half burning in the heat from the spotlight. I give you Ron Weasley.  
  
Since the beginning I have never stood alone. My face has always been in the public eye just enough so that I can never do anything without fear of being caught, of shaming my family. But the other part of my face? The part that really counts? It is turned from the light, from the cameras. They say it is always darkest in the corners, but it isn't, it is darkest on the edges of the hero, in the place were the light never shines. I always wonder who casts these productions, what kind of sick freak puts me on the edge every time. I get the recommendation for best played game of chess, the sportsmanship award, really. But who sacrificed himself? It was me, but I'm not the tragic hero, and it is always the tragic hero who is burned in the glare of the sun.  
  
I believe that there are three types of people. The main characters who get to kill all the bad guys, meet the Queen and end up with all of the sex scenes. After them there are the extras who mill around and chatter with each other, then go home and don't worry about getting noticed, about being written up about in the Sunday Post or having their faces plastered over every letter box in the civilized world. And then there are people like me. While the main character is being pampered and powdered they get a rag thrown at their faces and are told to wipe the dirt off their nose. We get the rubbish one-liners and smile cheerfully while the hero recieves his award. When people ask if we ever feel left out we keep that hard, bright smile on our faces, shake our head and say no, no we're glad we don't have that kind of burden. We are not merely in the shadows, we are the shadows. We follow every move the hero makes, we are always behind him, every step of the way, but a shadow is only a silhouette, it isn't even a reflection. Our moments of glory are not the moments when we know we've done what's right, they are the moments when our brave and gallant hero returns to safety.  
  
Question number one. How much dirt is in a hole? None. Question number two. How much glory is in a sidekick? See question one for answer.  
  
But underneath my anger, there's something else. Something painful, something chronic and obscene. It's fear. Where would I be if my Olympian hero's light was suddenly snuffed? My face half sunburned from the spotlight I would stand in complete darkness. I don't want to think about where I would be if the lead character were to suddenly fall from his pedestal. Likely I would be crushed from his weight tumbling onto me or I would be bounced so high I would land on the pedestal myself. And then I could truly make a mess of things.  
  
I am Ron Weasley, I polish halo's, occasionally save lives and often risk my own. Here's my card, call me some time. If my hero ever dies I'll need a new one. 


	3. I, The Shadow

A/N* I CLAIM NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU! Well, maybe the plot. But you can have everything else, I promise...  
  
Some men are born great, some men achieve greatness and some men have greatness thrust upon them. But that isn't really true, is it? No. It is true that there are three types of men, or for those who are sensitive about such things, three types of people. The third type is the extra. From the horses mouth, I give you Seamus Finnigan.  
  
It must be nice to be an extra, they say, it must be nice not to have such responsibility. But who do you think cleans up after the hero after he rescuse the damsel? It isn't the sidekick, it's the extra. And we have to do a good job of cleaning up too, because hero's are super-human, and super- human's don't leave messes. And who writes down the hero's messages, informing him of dates and times? It is the extra, always the extra.  
  
It must be nice to be an extra, they say, it must be nice not to worry about being recognised. But who do you think gets the first beating? It isn't the hero, it's the extra. And we have to get pummeled real good, too, because if you can defend yourself then why do you need a hero? The extra always takes the first punch, but he always has to point himself out on the screen, so everyone knows it's him. The extra takes the first tumble, but his name is never mentioned in the magazines that his mother reads. The extra never gets fanmail, he has to settle for reading the mail that the hero has discarded, hoping that perhaps his scene will be noted in the paragraphs of admiration.  
  
It is in the darkness of the wings, where we observe from the shadows, where the real battles are fought. Behind the curtains we watch, and wait for our cue. Behind the curtains we are killed, our bloody bodies are laid beside the hero and he avenges our deaths.  
  
But it doesn't matter. We are still dead. 


End file.
